Beauty Destroyed
by ArwenJaneLilyLyra
Summary: A oneshot about the scene in which the narrator destroys that which is beautiful...angelic, even. Film based only, I haven't read the book yet; the only characters included are Narrator; Tyler; and Angelface.


After watching Fight Club _again_ with a certain someone today, I've decided to write a fanfiction. Coupled with the fact Jared Leto is an Angelface, literally, not just in the cast list, I decided this would be the best part to write about.

Here is the scene in which Jack/Narrator (there are far too many names for this guy) fights and consequently ruins Angelface. I haven't read the book, so I've made up the backgrounds as I don't know what is even explained about them. A part from that, I've kept to the film.

For _cloud932_, who is just weird and watches this film far too much ;)

Beauty Destroyed

I can feel it, the rush, the sick rush of pleasure as my fist meets his face, as the spray of blood spatters across my face. Angelic blood that matches the angelic face I am ruining. It sounds like he's trying to force a word between the parting in the blood that might be his mouth. Most likely the word is _stop_, but I don't give him a chance to utter a syllable other than the gurgling moans as blood pours from him faster than the panting breaths he catches between cries.

Tyler is watching, I know he is. Does he know it's his fault I am slowly pulverising the boy? Does he know it's all because of him that the boy is going to need to go to hospital?

I never meant for it to burn me so badly. In the end, _I_ know whom it was that started fight club; _I_ know whom it was that Tyler first fought against alone in that street. But it doesn't seem like enough. The pride and admiration in Tyler's eyes…he'd never looked at me like that, what did this…this _boy_ have that I didn't, other than a pretty face?

And there's no denying it's pretty, beautiful, even. Why else would Tyler have nicknamed him Angelface?

Angelface. The boy whose face belongs on the posters that we once mocked in the early days. With the face of a Michelangelo painting, and the body of a Greek hero from the stories I used to know off by heart, he is an Angelface. I am not, I have always known I'm not.

It isn't the boy's fault, it's Tyler's. But the problem is I can't do this to Tyler. Not just because he's stronger that me, but because I need him. I don't need this boy lying with my knees digging into his chest, his head cracking repeatedly against the floor. He is dispensable, like everything else in this world, and he knows it. I saw it in his eyes when I saw him arrive for his first night of fight club.

He knows I know his deepest thoughts, that he doesn't care about himself. He fights in the hope of gaining the gift I am giving him: a lack of what he possesses more of than most: beauty. I saw the look of self loathing in his eyes when one of the boys told him they were envious of his looks. I saw the reluctance with which he answered to the name he had adopted.

But I also saw the adoration with which he answered to Tyler's call.

Tyler: his saviour. The one who was willing to treat him with respect, not to take advantage of him, but because he thought he was worthy of it. Tyler, of all the members of all the men stood in the room week after week, day after day, fighting, knew the importance of more than physical appearances. He took Angelface under his wing; saw the brains and humour and the cunning and talent behind the sparkling blue eyes and vulnerably flawless smile.

And now I was taking it away from him. Surely it's a kindness, I tell myself at least. Hasn't Angelface made it clear his looks mean nothing to him? So he won't mind this, he won't mind the anger I am crushing into his features.

Lines of black run down his pale face, where the blood is thickest and the cracks deepest. I pause only for a moment. The crowd is no longer cheering, but holding its breath. I see the intense fear in the crystalline gaze of the boy. I don't even know his name. What will they call him now?

But I have no time for ponderings; I am exerting the frustration that has built up inside me for too long. The fist rams into his nose again.

And again and again; the final break possibly shattering the cheekbone too. He tries to scream, but he's choking on his own blood. I wonder if he's more likely to die of blood loss or suffocation.

Why, Tyler? All I want is attention. All I want is for things to go back to the old way, before everything changed, and not for the better. When we fought, and we fought and fighting was all we knew and cared about. Now you've got your collection of adoring followers. The ones that follow you like blind, lost puppies, ever trusting and ever admiring.

The man with a son who ran out on him after he tried to explain eighteen was far too young to get married. The man who couldn't cope with the crushing guilt of leading a double life, ending the relationship with the mistress and finding divorce papers among his letters not three weeks later anyway. The man who had been an alcoholic until the day he woke up to find his son, dead by his own drunken hands, his daughter unable to stay in the same room as him for fear of her innocence and life.

The boy who had been naught but a trophy his whole life, running away from home the day his father, the only parent he had left, suggested he whore himself out to bring in some extra cash.

Didn't I trust and admire you too? Or was Angelface just more deserving because I wasn't such a poorly treated child?

I stop. The something that broke when Tyler first hugged Angelface, though not repaired, seems to stop hurting. Perhaps seeing the pure agony in the once perfect face has calmed the storm. Suddenly the feeling of knuckle to face is no longer satisfying, no longer a venting of frustration: now nothing more than one man slowly killing another in sheer brutality.

The hair that I watched with burning envy as Tyler ran his hands through it fondly is crimson. The blond strands stained right the way down to the roots. I stand. Angelface may be looking at me, but his face is beyond recognition, let alone his expressions comprehensible.

As I was walk calmly away Tyler asks me a question. I want to tell him it's because of him, because of my jealousy for every form of contact he has with another human being, but I hold my tongue, answering with the words that won't satisfy him, but will keep him content for a while.

"I felt like destroying something beautiful."

**OIOIO**

Reviews would be lovely :) you know you want to, even if it's just to tell me how awesome Tyler Durden is. x


End file.
